Dillusion
by Evony Frost
Summary: Spencer Reid's mental health could be declining. He's not alone though. His team, his family, will be there to help him no matter what. Rated T because have you seen this show? (nightmares and hallucinations)
1. Chapter 1

Beating, pounding, throbbing; a ticking bomb imbedded in your mind. How long do you have before explosion? You fidget, your shoe tap, tap, tapping on the tile floor. You've been scratching at your arms, trying to get rid of that prickly feeling, the one people get when they're being watched. Your eyes burn. You haven't been sleeping. Nightmares flash behind your eyelids like lightening strikes. You want to seek shelter from the storm but how can you when it rages in your mind?

You can't sleep. You can't think. You can't eat. Any semblance of the appetite you once had is gone. All you desire is coffee, the rich brown liquid capable of chasing away the nighttime demons. The high amount of caffeine in your system combined with the fact that what little meat you had on your bones is now gone causes your body to shake. It's only September, but you've already traded your sweater vests for the long sleeved sweaters tucked away in the back of your closet.

As much as you hate to admit it, you know something's wrong. You've thought about going to see a doctor, but what if they tell you it's all in your head? You don't need medication. You're not crazy. You're not. Right?


	2. Chapter 2

It's Monday. You woke up this morning after a night of restless sleep. Tossing and turning before waking, feeling no better rested than you did when you closed your eyes.

The drive to work was slow, and the sun was so bright. Now, you sit in the car with your head in your hands, willing the skull-splitting pain go away.

There's a sharp knock on the window that causes you to wince in pain. You look up, eyes squinting against the sun, and see Morgan. You roll your window down so you can hear him.

"Are you alright Reid?" He asks.

You nod; the movement is dizzying. "I'm fine. I've got a headache, that's all."

You can tell by the look on his face that he doesn't buy it. It's quite difficult to lie to an experienced profiler. "You look rough kid. Maybe you should head back home. Everyone will understand you taking a sick day."

You slip your sunglasses back on. They don't lessen your headache as much as you would like. "It's just a headache Morgan. Give it an hour and I'll be spouting intellectual ramblings like usual." You roll your car window back up, take the keys out of the ignition, and swing the door open. You want to step out of the car, look Morgan in the eye, and tell him your fine but you can't. As soon as you're standing upright, the world tilts and you sway dramatically. Your limbs are so heavy, they don't seem to be cooperating. Morgan's steady arm around your shoulder is probably the only thing keeping your face from getting up close and personal with the pavement.

"Reid, you are definitely not okay."

"Just- just take me upstairs." You're leaning heavily on him. If he were to let go, there's no doubt in your mind that you'd fall.

"You really should go home and get some rest."

"Derek, I'll be fine. Let me rest on Garcia's couch for a bit." He pauses, looking like he wants to argue. "Please?" That did it.

He sighs. "Fine, but only if you promise."

"I promise. Can you just grab my bag from the passenger seat?"

Keeping his arm around you, Morgan pulls the door open and reaches across the seat for your bag before closing it again. Carefully, he helps you inside the building and up to the office. The fluorescents aren't any better for your headache that the glaring sunlight.

When the elevator doors open, Morgan practically has to carry you across the bullpen. This doesn't escape Hotch's notice.

"What's going on Morgan?" Worry is written all over his face.

"Not sure exactly. Headaches, dizziness, and he's burning up. It could be a number of things."

A fever? You didn't know you had a fever.

"Why is he here? He should be at home, or preferably a hospital."

"No. I don't need to go anywhere. I'm fine Hotch, really. I can work." It's mumbled but you think you got your point across.

Hotch sighs. "Take him to Garcia's couch. I'll be there in a moment."

Morgan nods and pulls you into Garcia's tech lair. She's facing her screens, her fingers flying over the keys, never missing a beat. "Is that you, my lovely hunk of-" She swivels her chair around and her eyes go wide when they fall on you. "Oh my god, Reid! Are you okay?"

You give a grunt of assurance but she's still worried.

"He's gonna get some rest on your couch if that's alright with you Baby Girl."

She nods her head jerkily and starts to straighten up her couch, her eyes never leaving you for more than a few seconds. She fluffs the pillow and gestures for Morgan to lay you down. Slowly, he lowers you onto the couch where you proceed to bury your face in the pillow while Penelope covers you up with a very colorful afghan.

"It's dark in here. It's nice." You mumble, mostly to yourself. Someone runs their fingers through your hair. It's relaxing and you find yourself struggling to stay awake.

"Spencer," Penelope says, "go to sleep. You'll feel better."

You manage a small shake of your head. "I don't want to sleep. Sleep is bad."

"What do you mean Spencer?" Garcia asks.

You don't answer.

Garcia and Morgan are quite for the next two minutes or so before Rossi and Prentiss come in and even then the room stays silent. You can practically feel all of their worrying gazes on you and it's starting to make you anxious. Thankfully, Hotch walks in before it goes on any longer.

Morgan, I'd like to speak with you. As for the rest of you, can you please give us a few minutes?" They all nod, somewhat reluctantly, and leave.

Hotch looks at you intently, clearly worried. "Reid, I need to take your temperature. Can I do that?"

You nod slightly, being careful not to make your head start pounding again. Hotch places the thermometer in your ear and turns it on. He waits until it beeps before pulling it back out.

He turns to Morgan. "His fever's 102.8. What were the other symptoms he had?"

"He had a really bad headache this morning. I found him sitting in his car with his eyes closed tightly. I think it gets worse with bright lights. He couldn't walk either, like he was dizzy and his limbs were heavy."

"Is that right Spencer?" Hotch asks you.

You nod. "But I'm fine, I promise."

"There's something else Hotch." Morgan says. "He was fighting off sleep and when Garcia suggested he get some rest, he said he didn't want to and that sleep was bad."

Hotch turns back to you. "You don't want to sleep?"

"No, I don't really like sleeping anymore."

"Why not?"

You don't say anything.

Derek looks at you knowingly. "You having bad nightmares again Pretty Boy?" You look up at him with sadness in your eyes and that's all the confirmation he needs. "You want to tell us what you dream about?"

You swallow thickly, your throat suddenly really dry. "No, I don't." After clearing your throat you look up at Morgan. "Can I get some water and ibuprofen?"

Morgan leaves for a minute before coming back with the items you requested. You swallow the pills and take a drink of water. Your eyelids feel as though they weigh a ton. They flutter but you manage to keep them open.

Hotch notices your struggle. "Reid, I think you're suffering from exhaustion. You should stop fighting it. It'll help you feel better."

Morgan nods his head in agreement. "Go to sleep Pretty Boy." He says. So you do.

_It's pitch black. You might as well be blind for all the good your eyes are doing you right now. The air is stale and cold. You can't stop shivering. If it wasn't so dark, you'd probably be able to see your breath. The stench of rust is overwhelming. It causes your stomach to churn. There's something on your hands. They're covered in a hot, thick, liquid. Blood. It runs and drips off your hands and onto the floor. There's so much of it. So much blood._

"Reid. Reid, you need to wake up. You're safe. You're in Garcia's tech room at the BAU. You're not in your nightmare. Okay? You're safe."

The voice is just white noise. All you can think about is the blood. Oh god the blood! Your stomach lurches violently. Bile rises in the back of your throat. A trash bin is placed in front of you and you retch. Not much comes up.

A bottle of water is handed to you and you take a swig of it to clean out your mouth. Realizing that you're still not sure who's in the room with you, you look up. Sitting in a chair next to the couch is Emily.

"I'd ask if you're alright but that seems like a lousy question." She says with a humorless laugh.

You offer a small hesitant smile and take another drink before passing the bottle back to her.

You were asleep for about three hours. Your fever broke. You're still a little warm but you'll be back to normal in another hour or so."

You're not really paying attention to her. Your eyes are fixed to your hands. "I-I need to go wash my hands." You stutter out.

She's confused. "There's nothing on your hands Reid. They're clean. Why do you need to wash them?"

You know she's right. Of course your hands are clean. Of course there's no blood on them. That doesn't matter though, because you can still feel it. You stand up quickly and this time the dizziness only lasts for a few seconds. "I need to wash my hands." You repeat.

"Reid, I told you, you're fine. They're clean, look." She reaches for one of your hands but you jerk it back out of her reach.

"No. I need- I need to wash them now. I really need to. I need to wash my hands."

She's starting to look a little alarmed but she nods. "Alright, you can wash your hands. It's no problem." She stands from her chair and opens the door for you. You hold your hands out in front of you and take extra care to keep them from touching anything. She opens the door to the men's bathroom for you and you quickly rush inside.

You turn the hot water knob on the sink all the way up and pump a handful of soap into your palm. You scrub and you scrub and you scrub. Minutes later the sink is full of bubbles and your hands are an angry shade of red. Someone places a hand on your arm. It jerks you back into reality. You flinch away from the hand and get water all over yourself in the process.

You look over and Morgan's got his hands up in surrender. "Calm down Spencer. Emily sent me in here to check on you. She said you were pretty freaked out. You want to talk about it?"

I just needed to wash my hands." You walk over to the paper towels, rip off a couple of sheets, and start drying your hands. You wince. It hurts because the skin on your hands are so sensitive.

"Emily said your hands were clean."

"Well they weren't." You throw your paper towels into the trash bin and turn to leave but Derek's standing in front of the door, his eyes seeking out yours.

"Spencer, we care about you. You don't need to lie to us."

You avert your gaze, not finding it in yourself to meet his eyes. "I know that. You guys are my family. It's just… I'm not really sure what's wrong with me." Your voice cracks. You're close to tears.

Morgan takes few steps closer to you and envelopes you in a hug. It catches you off guard but soon you relax in his embrace. It feels nice to be held for once. "I want to help you, I really do. But I can't do that if you won't let me." He pulls back and looks you in the eye. "Will you let me help you?"

You pause. You've never really had anyone around to help you before. It's always been you helping and taking care of anyone else. You can't remember a time when someone was taking care of you. Maybe you should let him. It could be nice, not having to fight your battles completely alone. Besides, Morgan's one hell of a fighter. You could use him on your side.

"Yeah." You finally say. "I will."

You put your key in the lock and turn it until you hear it click and swing the door open. You hit the light switch on your way in and drop your bag by the couch. Morgan enters behind you and surveys the room. The walls are a dark shade of green and the walls are lined with bookshelves. The coffee table and end tables are piled with towering stacks of books as well. There are books in the chairs and on the couch. There are even a few on the countertops in the kitchen. You really wish you'd straightened up sometime in the past week. Usually your books are all neat and organized on the shelves but lately your mind has sort of been in shambles. Reading is your way to distract yourself from what's happening to you.

Morgan just quirks a smile. "How did I know that there were going to be so many books?"

You chuckle. "Lucky guess?"

"Yeah," He says, "that must be it." Morgan heads into the kitchen and routes through all the cabinets and the fridge, searching for something to eat. "Reid, what have you been eating? The only thing I've found so far is coffee."

You sheepishly look down at your feet. "That's pretty much all I have here at the present moment. I haven't gone shopping in a while."

When you look up, Morgan's eyes are on you. You see a deep look of concern in them before he masks his expression once more. "No matter. I'll order us some take out. I'm in the mood for some pizza. Does that sound alright with you?"

You shrug.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts entering a number. "Why don't you go brush your teeth and change into some comfy clothes? It'll probably make you feel better." He presses the call button and puts the phone to his ear before you can answer.

You brush your teeth first, happy to not have your mouth taste like stomach acid anymore. You try not to look in the mirror for as long as possible but eventually your eyes are drawn to the reflective surface. Your hair's a bit of a mess today but that probably has something to do with the nap you took on Garcia's couch earlier. That's not your main concern though. You're more worried about the dark circles beneath your eyes. Your face is pale and gaunt, something you aren't proud of. You quickly turn away, not finding it in yourself to look on any longer.

You heed the rest of Morgan's advice and head to your room to change. Sweatpants and a t-shirt will do nicely. When you reenter the living room, Morgan has situated himself on your couch, his feet propped up, his head tilted back, and his eyes closed. He'd look relaxed if it weren't the tension you can see in his jaw.

You sit on the other end of the couch and curl up underneath a fleece throw. It's chilly and goose bumps rise up on your arms. Once you're situated, Morgan turns on the television and finds a random movie that's on. Neither of you pay attention. He's worried about you and you can't stop your mind from exploring the possibilities of what could be wrong with you. Currently you seem to be suffering from exhaustion and dehydration, seeing that the only thing you've had to drink in the last few days is coffee.

You're close to dozing off when a sharp knock on the door startles you. Morgan goes to answer it and comes back a moment later with two hot pizzas. "Time to eat Pretty Boy."

Your stomach growls in response to the tantalizing aroma and you don't hesitate to rise from your position on the couch and follow Morgan into the kitchen. He's putting several slices onto two separate plates, the sight of the melted cheese making your mouth water. You pull the coffee out of the cabinet and move to turn the coffee maker on but Morgan places a hand on your shoulder. You turn to look at him and he shakes his head.

"Nope. No more coffee. You need to get some water into your system." You nod, knowing he's right, and put the coffee back in the cabinet. You pour yourself a glass of water instead and get settled at the table with Morgan. You eat in relative silence. Before two long, Morgan's working on his fifth piece and you can't force yourself to finish your second.

"You done?" He asks.

You nod. "I'm full." You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands and head into the living room. After curling back up under the throw blanket, you grab the remote and change the channel from infomercials to a Doctor Who marathon. Morgan joins you a few minutes later.

The next several hours are nice. Derek asks the occasional question about the show, which you more than happily answer, and you finally get your mind to stop running wild. It's nearing seven o'clock when Morgan reaches for the remote and mutes the television. You sit up and look over to him. "Is something wrong?"

He sighs. "I think we should talk about it."

"Talk about what?" You ask, pretending to be oblivious.

"You, Spencer, I think we should talk about you. About your nightmares and the fact that you haven't been sleeping. About your weight loss and your shaky hands. I'm worried. We all are."

"I didn't think you'd noticed all of that."

"Kid, I don't know if you remember, but we profile people for a living. Did you really think we hadn't noticed?"

"No," you admit, "I guess I didn't. I guess I was just hoping you hadn't." You lick your lips and rub your hands together, nervous in anticipation for what you know is coming next.

"I think we should talk about the dream you keep having. Is it the same one every time?"

You nod, knowing your voice would crack if you spoke.

"Tell me about it."

"I-I don't want to."

"I think it'll help and I think you think that too. Now, I know you're scared but listen to me. Close your eyes."

"Morgan, I really don't need-"

"Please, Reid, just humor me." He sounds desperate so you comply and let your eyes fall shut.

"Okay, I want you to think back to the dream you keep having. What do you see?"

"It's-It's dark."

"How dark? Can you see anything at all?"

You shake your head. "Nothing, it's completely black." You're breathing a little faster. "I don't like the dark."

"It's okay Spencer, calm down. You're here with me, your safe. Do you understand?"

You nod.

"Now, can you tell me what you smell?"

"Rust."

"Do you know why it smells like rust?"

"Blood, my hands are covered in blood." You can feel it, the sticky warmth coating your long fingers. Your stomach rolls.

Something must show on your face because a second later, Derek is helping you to your feet. "Come on Pretty Boy, let's get you to the bathroom."

You don't need to be told twice. You race to the bathroom, stumbling over your own two feet in the process, before falling in front of the toilet. As you retch, Derek rubs a soothing hand across your back. "How long have you been having these nightmares?"

"A-About two weeks." You admit.

"Why didn't you say anything? Why did you wait until we noticed you were physically ill?"

"I thought they'd stop." Using the edge of the sink, you pull yourself into a standing position and start brushing your teeth for the third time today.

"What about physical symptoms? How have those been?"

You spit into the sink. "What do you mean?"

"The headaches, the nausea, the weight loss- has all of it been going on for two weeks?"

You nod and continue brushing your teeth. He waits until you're finished to speak again. "Have you by any chance been to see a doctor lately?"

"I don't need to see a doctor. I am a doctor."

"Reid, I know you're a genius and that you have several doctorates, but we both know that's not the kind of doctor you need. You need to see a medical doctor."

You shoulder past him and head to your room. "No, I don't. I'm fine, really. I just need to get some sleep."

He follows you in your attempt to avoid him. "Spencer listen-"

"No. I don't want to listen, I don't want to see a doctor, and I don't want to know what to know what's wrong with me!"

Immediately, something clicks for him. His gaze turns sympathetic. "You're scared that the doctor will tell you there's nothing physically wrong with you." It's not a question.

You nod. "I'm not crazy." You're aware of how dejected you sound but you can't help it. "I'm not."

"Spencer," he places a caring hand on your shoulder, "I know you've spent your whole life living in fear of the chance that you might inherit your mother's illness, but right now, you aren't doing so hot. You had a fever, you've been throwing up, you've been getting migraines. You're in pain and I think you should at least give the doctor a chance."

You sigh, arguing with Morgan is like trying to argue with a child. Not that Morgan's childlike, but that it's pointless. You can't win no matter how hard you try. "Can't I just wait a little bit longer? You guys know now and you can help me if I need you to." He wants to push the issue, you can tell, but you can also practically see the gears turning in his head.

"Fine. I'll give you a week from today, but if you start getting a lot worse it's straight to the doc's office. Am I clear?"

"Transparent."

"Good." He checks his watch. "It's getting late. Clooney's been locked up in the house all day. I really need to get back home and let him out before he decided to make a mess."

Panic flares within you. He's leaving? No, you don't want him to leave. You don't want to be alone. You-

"Spencer, breathe." You do. "I'm not going to leave you here by yourself. I don't think that's in your best interest. I do, however, have to leave. I'll be back first thing in the morning but I'll call someone to stay with you for the night. I was thinking Penelope. I know how much she loves to spoil you so I-"

"No." You interrupt.

He's extremely confused. "Why don't you want Baby Girl? I figured she'd be your first choice."

"I want- I mean, I can't- I just don't-" You sigh, feeling guilty for what you're about to admit. "She smothers me." Once the admission slips past your lips, you can't stop the words from coming. "It's not that I don't appreciate her care, I do. She's just so keen on staying positive that she doesn't let herself remember that the other is suffering. Her optimism is so overbearing and I just can't-"

"Reid, stop." Immediately, you snap your mouth shut. "You don't have to justify your choices to me. If you don't want her here, it's fine with me. I can call whoever you want."

"Emily?"

"Sure thing Pretty Boy. I'll be right back." Morgan dials a number on his phone and exits the room.

You're cold again so you pull a large, thick sweater out of your closet and pull it on. It's not enough. You bury yourself under the duvet on your bed. It's nice, being so close to achieving warmth, but something's missing. A book. You don't want a factual book though. No mathematics, no physics, no engineering. You need a novel that tells a story. You want your collection of King Arthur's Tales. Your mother loved those a lot.

You head out of the room and into the living room, trying to be quiet because Morgan's on the phone in the kitchen. Your books are scattered everywhere and you start searching. First you scour the shelves, eyes roaming over the titles at a ridiculously fast speed. It's not there. You search the piles on the end tables and the coffee table. Still, King Arthur's Tales are nowhere to be found.

You check the bathroom. When you were nauseous on Saturday, you sat in there with a book alternately reading and throwing up. There's a pile of books on the back of the toilet but none of them are King Arthur's Tales. You head to your room next. There's a stack of books on the nightstand but again, none of them is the one you're looking for. You're starting to get upset now. All you want is that book. It'll help. It will. You just have to find it.

You get on your knees and look under the bed. It's dark but there's definitely something under there. It looks like it could be a book. You reach your hand out hesitantly at first and then quickly, grabbing for the book as fast as you can. You look at your find. King Arthur's Tales is grasped tightly in your hand. You crawl back onto the bed and under the blanket, hugging the book to your chest.

You hadn't noticed it while you were searching for the book, but your head is starting to hurt again. The ache rests behind your forehead and eyes. You squeeze them shut, wishing for the pain to go away. It spreads one nerve ending to the next, like an infectious disease works it's way from cell to cell, until your whole head feels like it's going to explode. The clock on the wall ticks, hands spinning round and round the face in dizzying circles. There's a knock on the door, breaking the rhythm of the mind-numbing sound.

"Reid?" The door opens slowly. It's Emily. "Morgan just left. Are you alright?"

You give a slight nod. She looks doubtful.

"Are you sure? You've been crying."

You reach a hand up to your face. It's wet. You didn't even realize. Emily crosses the room and perches herself on the edge of your bed. "Are you having one of your headaches now?"

You nod again, slowly though, trying to keep the pounding at bay. She gestures to the book you're hugging to your chest. "What book is that?"

"King Arthur's Tales. It's one of my mom's favorites."

"We're you reading it before I got here?"

"No, I didn't want to."

"Why not? You're always reading."

"Yeah but with this book it's different. It's not as good when I read it." She looks a little confused so you elaborate. "My mom used to read it to me when I was little to help me fall asleep. It just doesn't have the same effect when I read it."

She's silent, watching you with her profiler eyes. As a team, you try not to profile each other but it's hard to shut it off. You don't focus on her. Your eyes watch the clock. The second hand is making its 360 degree rotation for the seventeenth time this hour.

"Would you-" Emily clears her throat, "Would you like me to read it to you?" She pauses, you don't answer. "I know I couldn't possibly measure up to your mom but still, it might help." She's nervous. She wants to help but she doesn't want to make things worse. Right now, that's a very fine line to walk.

"I'd like that." You finally reply. You smile hesitantly and she smiles in return. You hand the book over to her and curl back up under the blanket. When she goes to cross her legs and get comfortable you close your eyes.

Emily's voice flows like melodic piano tunes. It's smooth and fluid, like the gliding of a paint filled brush across a canvas. It paints a beautiful picture in your mind. You almost don't want to speak and disturb the peace that has settled in the room, but you're slowly drifting off, being lulled to sleep by her voice, and there's something you need to say.

"Emily?" Your voice is rough from disuse. Somehow Emily's isn't, even after reading aloud for the past hour.

She seems a little startled at the interruption, lost in the sound of her voice reading off words she no longer comprehends. "Yeah Spencer?" Her voice is sweet and caring.

"I wanted to thank you for not telling anyone about my headaches. I know you wanted to."

"I did," She admits, "but I know how hard trusting someone can be. Trust is a precious gift. I wasn't going to betray yours."

You smile and close your eyes. She resumes her storytelling and this time, when sleep takes you by the hand, you don't fight it.


End file.
